


Trust Me

by MilkshakeKate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting, Oral, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Illya, Teasing, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkshakeKate/pseuds/MilkshakeKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My first fic in 4 years! Forgive me for any stumbles :-)<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in 4 years! Forgive me for any stumbles :-)  
> 

“As Agent in Command," she says loftily, with an experimental roll of her hips, "I expect my partner to obey to me. Whether or not you can resist me in the heat of a mission is your problem.”

“You sound like Cowboy.”

She pushes down hard on his chest, stilling him.

Illya rolls powerlessly under her, head rocking between the hotel pillows. His hair has been shoved aside, his face blushing pink and hot. He swells with fury and heat.

“Gaby,” he manages. “Please. I cannot--”

“You can't what?” She draws her thighs in closer, tighter around the sides of his chest. He moans for her, pleading. “Do you give in?”

To her private delight, he clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

She smiles cruelly at him, a little touched by the softening of his hands on her thighs; the gentle pleading press and tapping of his fingers there, begging her to hold them down.

She had promised not to let him forget his mistake. He will still pay dearly for it.

Waverly had appointed her as agent in command for the first time, and Illya had recklessly disobeyed her. She had seen the tell-tale beat of his fingers on his thigh. She had spent the evening trying to cool the burning glare on the curve of her back as he bore into her from the across the bar.

She expected him to hold back for her.

The Spanish magnate had danced with her, groped her, and slipped something into her Old Fashioned while thinking her too thick with drink to notice. She always notices. She had spotted it before he had even thought of it, and had gracefully mimicked the swallow, performed a luxurious savouring of the taste – perhaps a little too convincingly, as Illya bolted to the bar and seized the crystal tumbler to dash the Spaniard to the floor.

“It was mission objective.” He had squared his jaw, shaking the man’s limp hand from his shoe.

Gaby’s nails hooked into his arm like talons.

Illya was red then, but redder now. His chest heaves, the curves of muscle there setting off the planes of his face, his sharp, grinding teeth. She leans back to appreciate it, finding all the time in the world to watch him writhe. It is only his betrayal that holds her back from bending down to kiss him deep, to taste the salt and desperation in him; feel him crane up to taste her the way he needs.

Gaby shifts over his muscles, feeling every rise and fall of his torso through her silk underwear. He’d bought them for her weeks ago, wrapped up and discreet. She has already shed the brassiere, igniting ruin in him the moment they returned to the room. He must feel the heat of her now as she grinds down, pressed tight and hot over his bare skin.

Incensed, he rushes a hand up her thigh to grab at the delicate frill.

She slaps him away, pins his wrist above his head.

“Forgive me,” Illya says, low and reluctant. “I lost my temper. On mission.”

“Illya, you need to trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” he grunts at the sudden clutch of her nails in his palm, and the deep vibration of his chest drums through her thighs. There is still a playful smirk in him nonetheless. “Agent Teller.”

She takes his second roaming hand from her thigh, pushing it up the sheets to meet above his head and catch the other. Inches from him, his warm breath ghosts down her neck, her chest, to the slight breasts that brush over his lips. He groans, trying to kiss them. She lets him, just barely; hovering over him, teasing. As he pores over her, she twists the leather strap of his watch to free the skin trapped there. He sighs for her compassion, and works harder on kissing and lapping at what little he can reach.

Her eyes flutter closed, lost in his deep, keen sounds. He sinks his tongue over her nipples, firm now and sensitive to the warmth of his body, the cool tips of his fingers.

His wrists twitch under the bind of her hands, desperate to take control – to take her, turn her, touch her – as he is so used to. Those strong hands melt her, perplex her a little. Months and months ago, the first brush of his palm over the small of her back had burned her with the same anticipation, softening her after his less than ideal introduction. She'd wondered how he was capable of such a gentle touch with those same hands he'd used to destroy a car. His brutality in Berlin had chilled her, instilled a hateful fear in her beyond measure, and yet--

She pulls back coldly to sit on his stomach.

He lurches to take her back, but with one hard glare he slowly acknowledges his mistake. He sinks his arms back over his head, deep into the sheets with a rare shame. An apology, a plea.

She tilts her chin at him, waiting.

“I trust you,” he says.

Gaby rises up to her knees, looming over him. He is fully nude, cock rosy and tight on his stomach. Untouched. She has neglected him, letting him buck into nothing as she sits, unreachable, so close to his mouth but so far all the same, teasing him with warmth and taste he can’t reach but craves like nothing else, now that it has been denied. He writhes, strong enough to throw her off at any moment.

He never will.

He loves it - loathes it - the power she holds. It’s more than the long lashes and silken hair, the deep tan and muscle tone of hard work in every limb that weakens him. It’s in the fierce dart of her eyes. The hard set of her jaw when resolute, a gentle curve when at peace. She is small in size alone. No matter what her strength to his, whether or not he will ever have to defy her, she will always overpower him where it counts.

Illya stares hungrily. Wide eyed, lips parted. He holds himself down to please her, to apologise, though it pains him desperately now. He needs her to touch him. To take him in her hand or her mouth like he has never needed anything else. He is testing his strength as much as she is, and has already abandoned his pride.

“Good,” she says, finally. “Lean up, now. Slow.”

He does, rounding his broad shoulders up off the mattress. She pushes the plump pillows back under his head. She hadn’t realised how tired he was, how his urgent arousal fights so hard with the exhaustion of her interrogation. He shines with sweat, with wanting. He settles back down gratefully, eyes soft but apprehensive.

She fixes him with an expectant stare. He blinks, swallows, and slowly folds his arms up in a cradle under his head, trapping them beneath the pillows.

Gaby turns around and crawls backwards on her knees, cat-like and slow, and lowers herself onto him.

Illya hums low in his throat. She loves the sound. She pushes herself down against his lips, the firm point of his nose, the square of his jaw. The faint trace of his stubble has returned, brushing against the softest undersides of her thighs, brisk and sharp enough to make her shiver. The silk is unbearably thin, soon taking in the humidity of his hitching breath. She rolls her hips, pressing his features into the deep warmth between her thighs, and he moans.

It thrums through her, the reverberation. She fights the burning desire to sit back completely, to cover him with the warmth of the plump curve of her; feel him beg for more, for less, for it never to end, for her to end the torture. He mouths over the swell of her labia through the silk, kissing, tonguing the shape and taste.

She tightens as his stomach tenses under her palms, her hands braced solidly there as he works, hovering on the boundary of giving in to him for this. Were she not so burnt with rage for his behaviour, she’d be begging him to take her hips in his palms, to feast himself on her as he pleased — as on many nights he has, with a keen and fixated talent. But she is too proud, too stubborn. She will show him this way, make him remember how much he needs her – how easily she can deny him if he were to try such a stunt again. He will learn.

Challenging her will, he murmurs something Russian low and deep into the silk; almost wet now under his tongue, his lips drawing sensitive patterns over her in a knowing, tormenting way. It has her hold her breath, roll down into it. He knows exactly what it does to her. They know one another well enough in this field by now. She gasps faintly over his stomach, watching it tense and shake with his struggle to reach up and taste her, his arms restrained by his own desire to atone.

She watches with delight under her arm as she draws back and forth from his reach, his hands emerging to grab the pillows until his knuckles grow white. Desperate, furious; he closes his eyes when she returns to him, thankful, only for her to leave him lacking and wanting all over again. This back and forth angers him senseless, inspiring the occasional protest in thick Russian - a few curses of which he has already taught her on a cold, dull ferry trip to Calais.

Gaby sits down fully then, smothering him for his obscenities, and traces the sensitive V of his hips with her fingers. Without warning, she flattens her stomach against his and draws a hot tongue down his cock. And she leaves it.

Illya bucks up with a shout, growling impatiently and sending another rumbling vibration through the most sensitive part of her. She closes her eyes, rests her cheek on his stomach, falling into the pleasure of it.

“I cannot trust you when you do this to me,” he mumbles, muffled and so far away.

She pulls back from him, turns to look him in the eye. “Do you mean it?”

Illya stares, lost. He’s a wreck; breathless, hair dishevelled, lips pink and -- she stares hard -- shining? Shining in the lamplight with the raw readiness of her. It sends a shock straight to her stomach, firing something up inside, thrilling. To see him marked like that…

He shifts to sit up, adjusting the pillows against the headboard. He rests back there, as if he has finished with her.

“You think I am done?” Gaby demands.

Illya takes her hips firmly in his hands, running his thumbs over her. He pulls her up the bed to meet his mouth.

“Not at all,” Illya grumbles there. “Neck strain.”

Gaby scoffs and arches her back, pressing higher up to him and giving in for a moment. He holds her firmly to his mouth, with his palms hooked into the crease of her hips, bent at the waist still and giving herself to him, open and shameless.

He kisses then, so softly, unexpectedly, a slim trail over the delicate band of her underwear. It wakes her, shocked at the sudden gentleness where he is all craving; consuming, strong to take her in his hands. He has slowed, remembering his place, and asks wordlessly for mercy.

“I trust you,” he murmurs again, weighted and calm.

It falls quiet. Their gasps have quietened to slowing breaths, and the once imperceptible shift in the bedding becomes deafening.

“Smart,” a kiss to the small of her back, “And strong. Agent in Command.” The last is an indulgence. “My chop shop girl.”

She groans resentfully into the sheets.

He turns her with ease to sit in his lap. She roughly straddles his hips with intent to continue, when he presses a new kiss to the hollow of her throat. She hums low, half maddened, half overcome. She sullenly gives in to her need to be touched by him without thought of missions, of hierarchy, of work. Sometimes it is better to lose than to fight for any longer.

Illya teasingly shows her his newly freed hands, bent into fists, and shakes them one by one. She sacrifices a smile and he peppers kisses over her cheek, soft and apologetic.

She pulls away from his imploring kisses and firmly curls her hand around him. Illya's eyes slam shut, overwhelmed by the sensitivity the half an hour has built inside him, tender beyond belief. He dips his head to rest on her collarbone while she strokes him slowly. He does not know if it is mercy or torture. He reaches to touch her, rubbing through the silk with the pressure she had once demanded in a heated helplessness of her own. Before she can pace herself she rocks into his touch, her free arm around his neck and lacing into his hair.

He feeds on Gaby’s moans, his name on her tongue. He does not assume he is forgiven. He does what he can to show his sincerity; his understanding of what he knows of her, of how intimately he can read her, and does his best to bring her to the edge so she might forgive everything else, at least until tomorrow.

She cries his name with a gasp over his ear. The sensation rings through him, sending a shiver up his spine and drawing everything in him to a swelling peak. He curls his hand around hers on his cock and works with her, coaxing her to the head and lazily running a thumb over it, taking himself with a little more speed, a little more pressure.

He comes while moaning into her neck and kissing her there clumsily, losing himself. Her loosened hair tickles his nose as he buries his face in it, breathing her in. And he huffs over her shoulder, catching his breath for a moment.

When he starts to slip on her, defeated by the promise of sleep, she pulls his mouth to hers and kisses him forcefully, hungrily; not finished.

“Es tut mir leid,” he mumbles.

She laughs at him.

Illya sleepily takes her waist in his hands and pushes her back down to the foot of the mattress, moving with her, covering her body with his. He kisses her with a lazy heat.

Gaby finally wriggles out of her underwear, moving his hands over her when she can, but she doesn't fight his nature; to take in every inch of her, the inches he’d missed the short while he was deprived of them, only able to imagine her breasts in his palms, the push of her thighs under his fingers. He lavishes them with his careful attention, stern and dutiful.

He kisses the lowest curve of her stomach and takes her with a deep, slow press of his tongue.

“Illya!” She rears up into his mouth, demanding and impatient. He laughs and, had that not felt so good, she would have hit him.

She covers her eyes with one hand, taking a fist of his blond hair in the other. He grunts when she pulls too hard, keening for him to pay more attention: here, there, harder, gentler.

He succumbs to her whims for a while, looking from beneath his long lashes and down the bed to see her wriggle and sigh under his tongue, letting a rare laugh of disbelief escape her. Seeing her come undone is the eighth wonder of the world. Like this, she often moans out his name with passion and a fitful anger, and it stirs him so fiercely it aches. He wills for it to settle, to control himself, not sure how much longer he can handle seeing her like this so soon after coming himself.

He focuses on gently circling her entrance with his fingers, revelling in the gloss and heat.

Gaby seethes at his leisureliness, taking his wrist and pulling him in; his hand in hers and guiding him, commanding. He watches her with wide eyes as she closes hers, trusting and ready.

Illya dutifully adjusts his grip on her waist, pulls her closer to slip his fingers inside. He rolls his tongue over her in waves too, working into a rhythm and observing her every move, judging his next to meet her where she wants him.

Her arms sweep over her head and he watches the red blooming on her cheeks, the high stillness of her chest - she is holding her breath, mouth open but not chancing a sigh in case she lose the momentum, the build-up. He breathes for her and sucks soft and wet, but with no weak pressure; mounting the speed, eyes on hers, drawing it out of her like honey.

She arches so violently he has to follow her, shifting to meet her dancer’s elasticity and marvelling, always, at how she surprises him. He laps and kisses, slower and softer, as she falls back to earth and gives a tired little cheer for herself.

Barely looking from the ceiling, she takes his flushed cheek in her hand. He leans into it and finishes with a single kiss to the inside of her thigh.

“You believe me, now,” Illya concludes, crawling back to lie over her. He pushes her hair from her face, kisses her jaw messily. “Forgive me.”

She opens her eyes. “No.”

“Gaby,” he protests. He kisses her neck, the soft patch under her ear. “It was not in the dossier, his poisoning of women. He pawed at you like dog.”

“I had it under control.”

Illya draws back to read her, gives her a knowing smile. “I do not doubt it.”

His voice is soft with tiredness, warm and thick. It tests her to reject his pleas like that. While he’s so spent over her.

“Listen to me, then,” she says lowly, her hands on his chest. “Let me work.”

“I will,” he ducks to kiss her fully, thanking her. “I will. I will.”


End file.
